


With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Dragon Merlin (Merlin), Feels, How Do I Tag, I'm Still Salty That Being A Dragonlord, Idiots in Love, M/M, Means Merlin Can Long-Distance Call That Stupid Dragon, Mild Smut, Porn With Plot, Post-Episode: s02e13 The Last Dragonlord, Shapeshifting, Soft Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), and that's it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: There is another dragon in Camelot. Arthur doesn't know if it is the other one's mate or its offspring. He doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is that it has taken Merlin away from him. He'll have it's head for that, one way or another.The issue with that, however, is that the dragon has not eaten Merlin. The dragonisMerlin. It seems being a Dragonlord has its downfalls.
Relationships: Mentioned Morgana/Gwen, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 714
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet

"Sire?"

Arthur turns his head to look at his First Knight, standing a few paces away from him. The heavy mists have dampened his hair, small beads of water on the ends of his curls, and there's bruise-coloured shadows smeared beneath his eyes. "What?" he asks, closing his hand around the frayed red cloth he'd been drawing through his fingers.

"Gareth found sign, still fresh. We're close."

He nods, then turns his gaze back out towards the shallow valley the sharp rise overlooks, a grass-carpeted green bowl in nature's cupped hand, fringed with towering pines and sharp, jutting cliffs. The verdant serenity of the view brings a taste of bile to his mouth. Merlin would've been content to sit here for hours admiring it, long after the sun had burnt away the mists. "Ready the horses, tell the men to break camp," he murmurs. "We'll need to get as close as we can, then we'll go on foot."

"Yes, sire." There's a breath of pause, but then the crunching of footsteps as Leon moves away, leaving whatever thoughts he might have had wisely unsaid.

Arthur waits until the noises fade, then uncurls his fingers, bringing the cloth up to his nose and inhaling deeply, holding his breath a moment as if to keep the scent of sweetgrass and incense with him. The breeze shifts slightly, ruffling his hair, and he lifts a hand to brush the ragged ends out of his eyes. He should've had it cut weeks ago, he knows, but he hasn't. He doesn't want anyone coming that near to him with a blade, even a pair of scissors; only one person has that privilege. He tucks the cloth into his pocket and heads back for camp.

Either Leon has begun applying use of a riding crop to the slackers, or the knights understand they'll not be getting any rest until their quarry has been taken. The fire has already been doused, tents dismantled and repacked, horses being saddled. Gareth is crouched on his heels beside the remnants of the fire, helping himself to a hasty breakfast of travel rations.

Arthur stops beside him. "What did you find?"

"Some bones, dried blood, not two days old. Claw marks up and down the cliffside there, fresher. The dogs will go up to the edge of the meadow there but no farther. There're deer trails about. I imagine it's hunting them from there," Gareth answers between bites, pointing as he speaks.

"Mm." Arthur looks down at the hounds taking their rest with the horses, tongues lolling and flanks heaving. Diànna and Mirre, his prized brachets; neither had shied from any quarry before, but he imagines the scent of dragon would be too much for even the bravest hound. "Keep them with the horses once we reach the cliffs. I imagine they'll spook if they're brought close," he says, reaching down to ruffle their long ears, letting them lick his hands. Merlin had never liked the kennels, and the other hounds hadn't liked him, save these two, his best girls. "We'll stay clear of the meadow, don't disturb its hunting ground, and we'll move up the cliffs, see if we can't pen it in."

"Yes, sire."

As the tracker moves away, Arthur leaves his hounds and goes to Llamrei, patting his mare's neck, then unfastens the long bundle lashed to her saddle. He'd asked Guinevere to make it for him after the King gave him leave to hunt the dragon; he had probably paid her more than thrice what it was worth, too. He thinks the investment worth every last copper.

The shaft of the spear is made of solid oak, heavier than most polearms are meant to be, reinforced with steel bands. The spearhead is like unto a boar spear, except instead of crosspieces to keep the beast from forcing itself further up the length of the shaft, there are wicked hooks that curve backwards from the point, resembling a treble hook, the inside curves of each jaggedly serrated, every point barbed. Once it goes in, it shan't come back out again, not without shredding the wound thrice as severely. Even if the beast snaps the shaft off, the spearhead will lodge in its flesh, and the more it moves, the more it shall wound itself. Should he miss the vitals, it will still bleed continuously. The wound shan't heal and will likely take septic in short order. All he needs is one good lunge.

One way or another, he is going to kill that dragon.

* * *

_"I'll put you in the stocks for a month if I must, Merlin, make no doubt," Arthur grumbles as he stomps through the long grasses towards the Darkling Wood, the morning dew soaking through his breeches to dampen his calves. Even as he says it, though, his stomach keeps turning itself over in his gut, a flicker of nerves in his chest and throat. Merlin's been clinging to him like a second shadow since the dragon attack, and even if Gaius sent him on an admittedly needful trip for herbs, he should've been back by now. He should've come back._

_Arthur tries to shake away the unease, following the narrow little trail that leads into the wood. He's being foolish. There's nothing wrong, he's simply paranoid. The younger man has an uncanny ability to sleep just about anywhere, and they've all been run ragged lately. Merlin probably been caught out in the rain and decided take a rest outside where no one could bother him, that's all. Arthur will find him snoring under a tree somewhere. That's all it is. It'll be fine._

_"Merlin!" he calls as he ducks past a low branch into a wide meadow, Merlin's usual herb-hunting ground. "Merlin, get your lazy backside over here! Merlin!"_

_Only the twitter of early birdsong answers him; his stomach tightens._

_Scowling, Arthur stomps further out into the meadow, then comes to an abrupt stop when he sees that there's a broad swath of grass that's been…burnt. It must've been extinguished by the rain before it could spread, so there's only a strangely controlled stripe of crisped grass and blackened earth that zig-zags back and forth like a switchback mountain trail. What in seven hells…? As he comes closer, a splash of blue against the green catches his gaze. Heart quickening pace in his breast, he leans over and picks it up._

_It's Merlin's tunic. There's a tear in it large enough for Arthur to fit both hands through, the cloth still tacky with thick, copper-scented wetness the rain couldn't wash out. Blood. He rakes his gaze across the grass, sees more cloth, dark brown stained even darker. Merlin's jacket, his breeches. Shredded. Bloodied._

_Pulse roaring in his ears, he turns, raking his gaze around the clearing, and halts when he sees the trees at the edge of the small clearing. The trunks have been bent apart, all the branches down one side broken or bent, bark scraped away, as though something very large had forced its way between them or tried to climb up them. Legs numbed and heavy, he staggers towards the trees, staring at the damage, then looks downward._

_Pressed deep into the soft earth at the base of the trees, sheltered from the rain by overhanging limbs, are tracks. Large tracks, bigger than any bear. He knows what they're from. He's seen them before, in that fiery clearing which still appears in his dreams. He had studied them until they were burned in his mind. Father says that the dragons are extinct now, but until a month ago, Arthur had thought they were extinct already. He hadn't wanted to ever be so unprepared again. And now, now he recognises what this is._

_Dragon sign._

_There's another dragon._

_The dragon's killed Merlin._

_He tilts his head back, staring up at the brutalized trees, the sky so clear and blue above, and his gaze lands on something dangling from a broken branch—a boot, one of the buckles caught on a protruding splinter. His breath speeds until he's almost panting, short ragged gasps that burn in his chest on each inhale, then halts as though snagged on a thorn. Arthur balls up the tunic against his mouth and screams until there is no sound left in his body._

* * *

Being a Dragonlord has its shortfalls.

Ordering Kilgharrah to give up his revenge on Camelot, all well and good. Slipping his skin and becoming a dragon with no apparent way to turn himself back into a man…not so much.

Kilgharrah, the cryptic old bastard, has been infernally closed-mouthed on the subject. Well, more than he usually is, at any rate, claiming that the Dragonlord's gift of skinchanging is not his to teach. The dragons had been the first skinchangers, and those dragons had become the first Dragonlords; it was they who had taught others the magic of slipping one's skin, taking on another form, though it isn't the same, as shapeshifters are men who become beasts, where as they are beasts who become men. Again, Merlin finds himself mourning his father, wishing Balinor could have lived, even if only for a while longer, told him more about their heritage, about their inborn magic, this wondrous ability.

Merlin rests his chin on a lip of stone, gazing at the distant shape of the castle, a splinter of white where blue meets green, and sighs. The old scorch still goes on about his destiny and the prophecy, though how in seven hells Merlin is supposed to fulfil his destiny with Arthur when he cannot even _speak_ is a bit of a mind-bender. He'd finally ordered Kilgharrah to leave him be. Even if he cannot speak in the tongue of men anymore, he can still speak the tongue of dragons, and his word must be obeyed.

A part of him still revels in this, no matter how it complicates things; Merlin's never known such freedom. Two sweeps of his wings, and he's in the air, the lush greenery of Alba laid out for him, no terrain impassable to him. He had thought to perhaps go to Ealdor and see Mother, but he'd discarded that idea. Without use of his voice, he's more likely to cause a panic and start a dragon-hunt, though he could do with a hug from his mother about now.

And he can't bear to leave Arthur.

Even if he cannot return to the city itself, it does not necessarily mean Camelot is lost to him. The cave he's made a temporary home of boasts of a deep pool, stone-filtered water so clear he can see all the way down into its night-black depths, and with nothing else for it, he has become quite good at scrying, peering into the calm surface of the pool for hours on end.

Merlin rises and gives himself a little shake, resettling his wings. Perhaps he'll go back to his cave for a while, gaze into his scrying pool or sit with his egg for a while. Well, it isn't _his_ egg. He'd taken it from a tower to the south a few days before, following a fierce, pulsing call in his chest that had driven him half-mad until he finally gave in to it. Kilgharrah wants him to call it to life now, but Merlin is beginning to appreciate Gaius's repeated lessons of patience. He'd rather have at least a measure of stability in his own life before he tries rearing a dragonet, and it's not like it isn't safe with him now. It makes him feel better than almost anything else, lying curled up in the deepest part of his cavern with the egg tucked up against his breast, thrumming with warmth. He's been thinking of names.

As he starts to turn away from the cliff edge, making for his cave, the breeze shifts direction, bringing to him a scent that is familiar as home to him, yet skin-crawlingly alarming for reasons he cannot name. Merlin whips his head towards it, ears cocked forward. His new senses being what they are, he can hear breathing in the hardy scrub brush that grows around the base of the slope, smell acrid fear-scent. His head lowers, ruff extending from beneath his crest.

A rustle of movement, a gleam of sun on maille, and then a spear sails so close past his head he can feel the breeze of it on his ear.

Merlin recoils away with a hiss, his ruff extending and rattling against his scales in response to the threat even as his heart drops at the sight of Sir Bors emerging from the undergrowth, another spear in hand. And a dozen more knights behind him, all similarly armed with halberds and spears—Gareth, Lamorak, Bevidere, Kay, Lanval, Erec, Hector, Lucan, Geraint, Pelleas, Leon.

Arthur.

Wild-eyed, lean, and more bedraggled than Merlin has ever seen him, but it is him nonetheless, leading the party and holding a heavy spear with a terrible barbed spearhead.

A part of his new dragonish instinct roars in challenge, wanting to answer them all with blood and fire for daring to challenge him, but he cannot. Even if they do not know him, he knows them, and he can count nearly all of them as a friend, or at least a companion. Merlin starts to turn and flee, but freezes. If he flees to his cavern, then they will have him cornered, and should they get past him, they'll have his egg. If he flies away, they might well find it anyways, searching for his trail. No, he needs to find some way to communicate with Arthur, to tell him, but it'd be a damned thing to do whilst a party of knights are trying to put a spear through him.

Alright, then. He'll just have to outwit them.

He stamps his hindfeet hard enough to make the smaller stones about him bounce and _roars_ at them, extending the spined fans of his ruff to the fullest and rattling them against his scales with a sound like dry seeds being shaken in a gourd.

Arthur's learned from his encounter with Kilgharrah. They're keeping their distance, careful not to come too near to the cliff edge lest he sweep them over it, and they bear shields that've been polished to mirror-shine, tilting them into the sun to dazzle him, keep him distracted enough that one might land a lucky strike against him.

Ignoring the instinct trying to command him, Merlin keeps his wings in tight, vulnerable sails folded against his back, and presses his belly to the ground, covering as many of his soft spots as he can, tail coiled around his hindlegs and head lowered. _Fire them! They'll cook in their maille,_ his dragonish thoughts howl. _Fly! They cannot reach you in the sky._ Jaw clamped against the metallic heat in his throat, he forcibly keeps himself in place as they edge forward in slow increments, jabbing at him with their polearms. None of them are near enough to make a good blow yet, and so long as he stays coiled up like this, they've little chance of striking his vitals. He just needs them a bit closer.

Lucan breaks forward, thrusting his spear towards the join of Merlin's neck and shoulder. The point scrapes over his scales, leaving a stinging pain but no real damage. Merlin grabs at the shaft with his foreclaw, snapping it clean in two, then has to duck his head as Kay tries for his throat with his halberd, snapping his teeth at the steel point. All the while, he's aware of Arthur edging around the others, eyeing the vulnerable spots behind his ruff with fervent focus. Just a little closer…there!

He lurches into sudden motion, beating his wings in a sudden flurry and spitting a short plume of flame, forcing Leon and the other knights to leap backwards on startled reflex. Just like that, Arthur is separated from the others, out of reach of the shield wall or their polearms. Whilst the prince is focused on claws and fangs, aiming for his neck with the awful spear, Merlin uncoils his tail with a sharp crack, knocking the shaft clean away.

_Forgive me for this, Arthur._

Jaws opened wide, he lunges and seizes Arthur in his teeth, dragging him in close with a sharp yank, his head and shoulders in Merlin's mouth. He doesn't bite down hard enough to puncture the maille, of course, holding on only tight enough that Arthur can't pull away. He can feel hands scrabbling at the side of his muzzle, unable to find purchase on his scales or reach his eyes, and he can hear the prince screaming, muffled between his teeth. Merlin turns his gaze to Leon and lets out a garbled hiss, wishing he could speak.

"Hold! Hold!" Leon shouts, a bright strain of panic in his voice; the other knights shuffle uneasily, but they hold, uncertain of what to do.

Hauling the prince back another broad pace for good measure, Merlin opens his jaws and immediately closes both foreclaws around Arthur's midriff, opening his wings. There's an unexpected resistance, unused to the extra weight, but then he's _up,_ the other knights rapidly shrinking below, upturned faces staring after him in horrified fear.

Settling his claws tighter around Arthur, he rises further up and away into the mists.

* * *

_Merlin doesn't care if an entire flock of gryphons appear in the sky tomorrow. Once he takes this last basket back to Gaius, he is barring the door of his chamber and sleeping for the next two days at the very least. Arthur can dress his damned royal self, and if he even says the word 'stocks,' Merlin will summon Kilgharrah right back here to eat him, see if he doesn't._

_Thoughts of the dragon brings him back to thoughts of Father, and his heart aches all over again, closing up in his throat and stinging behind his eyes. He stops halfway across the moon-drenched meadow and forces a deep breath, tilting his head back to let the cool rain fall on his face, mingling with the salt of his tears. When he gets back, he'll let himself have a bitter, indulgent cry, hold his carved dragon for a while—_

_Fire ignites in a burning line up his back._

_It isn't outright_ pain, _more like an all-consuming itch, as though an entire swarm of firebugs has taken under his skin. The sudden entirety of it pulls a gasp from his throat, and Merlin drops his basket, reaching around to claw at his back, shoving his hands under his jacket and tunic. He can't reach well enough no matter how he twists. Panting, he staggers to the edge of the meadow and presses his back against the nearest tree, scraping his back against the rough bark in pained ecstasy. It helps, yet it doesn't. He feels something split and wet his back in agonized relief._

_And then it truly does become pain, a rending, tearing, searing anguish he's never felt the likes of before. Merlin falls forward to his hands and knees, unable to even scream for how it hurt as he feels the muscles of his back shift and tear, bones cracking and tendons snapping, some_ thing _pulling itself free of him, shredding through his tunic and jacket like gossamer._

_It doesn't end there. As though his back was only the starting point, the agony begins to spread outwards into the rest of his body, crawling through his limbs, every part of himself. Merlin claws at his own skin, hoping to somehow scratch it out of himself, and to his own distant, detached horror, his skin splits beneath his nails, blood and a thick, clear fluid spilling out. And underneath, oh gods help him, underneath…_

_Everything dissolves into a throbbing red haze._

_When he comes back to himself, he is aware that the world is different. Except…no, he's the one who is different._

_A dragon. He is a dragon._

_He can see his own shadow against the grass, cast in sharp relief by moonlight, large and spiny and serpentine, and when he twists his neck around—gods' mercy, how long his neck is now—he can see himself, scaled and clawed and winged. Panic rises in him, panic and fear and confusion all tangled up together, along with a hot spear of anger because does he not suffer enough already, he must also be given this?_

_Heated pressure squeezes around his chest and throat, and a bright spear of fire leaps from his mouth, searing a black path across the meadow grass. Startled, Merlin coughs, the strange new muscles in his throat contracting, and out comes the fire again; he swings his head side-to-side, letting it burst forward until whatever driving it finally relents. Surprisingly enough, he feels better now, and he remembers how Kilgharrah had sometimes breathed fire in his fits of temper—_

_Kilgharrah._

_He needs to speak to Kilgharrah._

_The joints of his wings creak and pop, aligning themselves as he stretches his wings out, flapping them hard. The meadow isn't large enough for proper liftoff, or perhaps, more likely, he isn't coordinated enough to manage it, and he careens into the trees, branches scraping and snapping harmlessly against his scaly hide. Merlin digs his claws into the trunks and propels himself upwards, and then, finally, he is aloft, rising into the dark sky and following an instinct he cannot name towards his elder._

* * *

Arthur isn't sure which is worse—to be dropped from an absolutely terrifying height to burst against the ground like a melon dropped from the ramparts, or to be cooked alive in his own maille by dragon-fire and snapped up for afternoon vittles. Either way, he doesn't believe the former will be his fate, as the dragon's powerful foreclaws are wrapped snugly about his midriff, keeping firm hold of him. Such is its grip that he cannot reach his dagger, either, so he is left to dangle from its clutches as it flies through the swirling grey mists, screaming into the wind that roars past his ears.

Arthur has screamed himself damn near mute by the time the dragon glides in low to land in a broad, grassy clearing. It lands with its hindfeet first, standing up on its rear legs for a second so it can drop him on the grass instead of crushing him. The impact knocks what breath he has out of his chest; he sprawls on the grass, wheezing and coughing, and another cry escapes him when he's suddenly _yanked_ upwards by his cloak, feet kicking helplessly in the air.

For a dizzying moment, he's left dangling from the dragon's mouth, but then his cloak comes over his head, catching at his ears, buckle scraping his cheek, and he falls to the ground in an inelegant heap, nearly breaking his ankles. Scrabbling on hands and knees, he tries to crawl away from it before it realises that it doesn't have him anymore. Talons curl around his leg, dragging him across the grass towards it like a child's poppet. Once it drops his leg again, he twists himself over onto his back and stares up at the dragon, tall as a mountain from here. "What do you _want?"_ Arthur screams at it, no longer caring if the damned thing ate him or not. He's sick unto death of this twisted cat-and-mouse game.

The dragon backs away a few paces, cloak dangling from its teeth, then starts twisting its neck around, flapping the heavy cloth at its own shoulders. It almost looks, absurdly enough, as though it's trying to _put it on_ somehow. After a few attempts, the clasp snags on one of its spines, catching and staying; huffing softly, the dragon rolls itself over twice, rubbing itself against the grass until the cloak is twisted all around its neck. Gaining its feet again, it turns back towards him, lowers its forequarters to its elbows, and waggles its ears at him.

Arthur stares as he gets to his feet, wondering if it is possible for a dragon to be soft-minded. What kind of absurd creature _is_ this? With those ears and that red cloth around its neck, it almost looks like—

No. No, it cannot be.

_"Merlin?"_ The word leaves him in barely a breath.

The dragon gives this peculiar all-over _wriggle_ that runs all the way from its oversized ears to the tip of its tail, then cocks its head and deliberately winks one golden eye at him.

He staggers back a step, trips on empty air, and sits down hard. For a moment, he only stares, but then he's laughing, laughing until he cries. He has to laugh. Has to, because if he does not, he's not entirely certain he shan't go mad and start screaming instead.

When he comes back to himself, gasping and hiccupping a little, his ribs aching, the dragon—Merlin, oh God help him, it's _Merlin,_ Merlin-the-dragon—is peering down at him with head cocked once more, and despite the distinctly reptilian face, there's an expression of concern being bent his way. "I'm okay," he sighs out, pushing himself up. "I'm okay. Oh, Christ, Merlin, what have you _done_ to yourself?"

Merlin makes a soft sound in his throat, then lowers his head to Arthur, gently pushing his nose against one shoulder.

Arthur reaches up and presses his hand to Merlin's muzzle, disbelieving it still. The scales are small and laid together so tightly they're almost like a coat of maille, yet they feel soft under his touch. "Hey," he murmurs.

The dragon's head tilts a little, and a long red tongue flickers out, brushing over his palms.

Looking down at his hands, Arthur notices for the first time that his gloves have been torn, his palms cut and bleeding sluggishly. For a moment, he's not certain how he did that, but then he realises, and he swats the end of Merlin's snout. "What the hell were you _thinking,_ grabbing me like that?" he snaps. "You're lucky I didn't stab you in the throat, you _idiot."_

He doesn't imagine there are many who can claim to have seen the inside of a dragon's mouth and lived to describe it, though. He'd grabbed at Merlin's teeth, trying to pry those impossibly powerful jaws open, and apparently, a dragon's teeth are saw-edged. He hadn't even felt the pain of it, being preoccupied with the fact that he was _in a dragon's mouth._

Merlin's ears flick again, eyes crinkling, and Arthur has the very distinct feeling he's being laughed at. "Shut up. How did this happen to you? Do you know?"

A head-nod _yes._

"How, then? Can it be undone?"

That earns him a loud snort, and Merlin shows his teeth, stamping one hindleg.

"Oh, right. Sorry." Feeling only slightly foolish, Arthur backs away a few steps to look at the dragon who is his manservant. The other dragon had been metallic hues of gold and bronze, but Merlin is mottled in shades of deep blue and purple, marked with black bands over his back and sides, though his breast and throat are a paler off-white colour. He isn't so large as the other one, either, perhaps twice again the size of a particularly large destrier.

"Merlin…." He closes his mouth, clenching his jaw tight on the words knotting up in his throat. He wants to find whoever did this and raze them to the ground, salt the earth they stood on. He wants to fall to knees and beg Merlin to never leave him again, apologise for every unkind and prattish thing he'd ever said or done. He wants to have Merlin in front of him as a man with his stupid ears and his stupid neckerchief and his stupid grin, whole and hale, insolent and rashly noble.

Arthur steps closer, right up to the dragon, then reaches up to wrap both arms around Merlin's neck as best he can, though he can't quite reach all the way around. It's a bit awkward and not that comfortable, but he has to do… _something._ There's a moment of pause, but then he feels and hears the dragon's body shift, sinking down to lay on his belly and making his reach a little easier. Merlin's forelegs shift until they're caging him in, sharp claws clicking faintly against his maille.

With his head resting against the smooth-plated scales on Merlin's breast, Arthur can smell reptilian musk and brimstone, but underneath it, tickling the back of his nose, sweetgrass and incense. He closes his eyes tightly, pressing his head more firmly against the warm scales, and drags in a breath so deep it shudders in his chest. It takes conscious effort to lower his arms again, take a step back so he can tilt his head back, look up into that so-expressive face. "Merlin, we'll get this fixed. I promise."

The dragon lowers his head, and a forked red tongue flickers out between all those dread teeth, the tips brushing feather-light against his hair.

Merlin refuses to take him back, the stubborn bastard, but Arthur cannot say he blames him. He doesn't know how he is going to explain this to his knights, or how he can convince them not to kill Merlin anyways due to the magic laid on him. Instead, they go to a nearby lake, the waters so still and calm they reflect the sky as true as mirror. Arthur wriggles out of his maille and gambeson, stripping himself down to his smallclothes to swim. Merlin flings himself into the lake with a tremendous splash that sends water cascading everywhere.

He can't swim for long, as the water is still rather frigid despite the warmth of the spring, but still, the activity helps calm some of the clamour in his mind and heart, just as it does when he trains. Sooner rather than later, he slogs ashore and sits on a flat-topped rock to dry off in the sun, watching Merlin, more resilient to the cold; when he swims, he holds nearly his entire body underwater, only the spiny ridge of his back and the top of his head visible, like some great sea serpent, sluicing through the water with hardly a ripple.

Arthur watches the dragon dive beneath the lake surface, resurfacing a moment later with the tail-end of fish disappearing between his teeth. God help them, what is he going to do with this? He could ask Gaius, of course, but what could be done about _this?_ It all seems so…he doesn't have the words for it. Coincidental doesn't cover it. First, the dragon that had attacked Camelot despite supposedly being an extinct breed, then there was Balinor, the dragonlord who died after Arthur and Merlin had asked him to help Camelot, and now Merlin has somehow been transformed into a dragon himself. He doesn't know what to make of it. There is something he is missing, some thread that binds this all together, yet he cannot find it, groping in the dark.

He's pulling on his clothes when Merlin comes ashore, shaking himself out and throwing off great sheets of water like a hound. "What are we going to do now?" he asks of the dragon, gazing up at him.

Merlin twists his long neck around, gazing into the distance; Arthur isn't entirely certain of their bearings, but he thinks that is the way they had come from, the valley and the cliffs where the dragon had been living.

"I don't think so. I imagine Leon will still have the knights around," Arthur murmurs, guilt flickering in his chest. God, he had _hunted_ Merlin. He thinks of the spearhead he had commissioned, of the damage it would've done, and swallows thickly.

Merlin's ears wilt slightly, and despite everything, it makes him smile a little.

Instead, they head back into the trees, finding a close-growing grove of rowans to camp under. Arthur doesn't have flint or steel, but once he's collected firewood, Merlin sneezes, and there's a merry fire going. No matter what form he is in, he still has the ability to sleep in any event; in short order, he's coiled up in a heap of glossy scale beside their little campfire, rumbling out a low snore so deep the rowan leaves above him tremble with it.

"What am I going to do with you?" Arthur whispers, stroking a hand over the bony, armoured ridges over Merlin's brow, leading up to his horn crest. One hand slides into his pocket, grasping at the neckerchief he still has with him, working the fabric around his fingers. It'd probably only fit tied around one of Merlin's horns now, and he'd like as not lose it the first time he flew. Arthur smooths his hand over the ridges, leading back up to the broad ears, and he strokes the nearest one gently, just with the backs of his fingers; Merlin rumbles in his sleep without stirring. "Oh, Merlin mine, what am I going to do with you?" he repeats softly. Taken by a sudden surge of tender daring, he lowers his head and presses a small kiss to the warm scales at the end of Merlin's nose.

* * *

_"You said you were going hunting!" Morgana exclaims, barging into his chambers without knocking as she always does. She's one of only three people who have the nerve to do so. "Hunting! You do not hunt a dragon, Arthur, it hunts you!"_

_He doesn't turn away from packing, shoving his spare kit into a saddlebag. He doesn't need to hear this now. "The King has already given me leave to pursue this." His voice sounds flat even to his own ears._

_"To hell with the King!"_

_"As long as it lives, it poses a threat to Camelot."_

_"Stop that and look at me, Arthur." She grabs his shoulders and pulls, and he lets himself be turned halfway so he can meet her eyes, more green than grey now that she's angry. "This is madness. You barely managed to survive the first, and now you want to chase after another?" she asks, then shakes her head once. Her voice comes lower, softer. "Do you think you are the only one grieving? Merlin was a friend to many. Do you believe he would want you doing this, risking yourself so needlessly?"_

_"What would you do if it had been Guinevere?" he demands, the words wrenching themselves out of his throat at the sound of Merlin's name; Morgana's lashes flicker in surprise, her lips parting noiselessly. Ah, she hadn't known he knew, not that it matters now. And it isn't the same, not truly. He and Merlin hadn't had what they did, no matter how much he had wanted, too much of a coward to do anything, too arrogant to ever think there would be a day Merlin might not be there. He swallows back the guilt, the shame, the regret, turns to face her. "What would you do? Would you find it so needless then?" He takes her elbow, giving her a light shake. "Tell me."_

_Morgana closes her mouth, pressing her lips together, and her gaze slides away from his._

_"Mm." He drops his hand from her arm and turns back to his haphazard packing. Sighing faintly, he turns the bag upside-down, shakes the mess out, and starts to arrange it into at least a semblance of order so it'll all fit._

_A scrap of well-loved red cloth falls out atop his things, crumpled up in the bottom corner of the saddlebag and long-forgotten. He picks it up, playing it out between his fingers. Two corners are still tightly creased where they'd been tied together, loose threads dangling from one frayed edge, and that smell, that damned smell, sweetgrass and incense and woodsmoke and herbs, breathes out of the soft cloth. Arthur bows his head, eyes tight closed, and clenches his hands around the neckerchief, trying to ignore the tremor in his fingers._

_"Oh, Arthur…." Morgana embraces him from behind, her head resting against his back. She says no more about the hunt._

* * *

"Merlin! Merlin!"

He wakes up to hands on his shoulders—his _human_ shoulders—shaking him awake, and he opens his eyes, looking _upwards_ to see Arthur kneeling beside him, leaning over him with wide eyes and a broad smile. He swallows and tries for his voice, not daring to even believe it. "Arthur?"

The prince lets out a hoarse sound that might've been a laugh or a sob, then hauls Merlin upright by the arms, throwing both arms around him. It isn't exactly a comfortable embrace, given Arthur is still in his maille and the fact that Merlin is, apparently, mother-naked. "You're back."

Merlin tucks his face into the bend of Arthur's neck and inhales, smelling sweat and leather and faint lake-water on him. What in seven hells is this? He is starting to think there is some kind of hideous cosmic jest being played out here. "Arthur." He cannot think of anything else to say.

Arthur's hand is cupped around the back of his head, and his fingers gently ruffle through Merlin's hair. When he draws back, there's a weak smile on his face even though his lashes are damp. "What happened to you?" he murmurs, voice raw.

He opens his mouth and closes it again. Goddess help him, where would he even _start?_ What does he even say to that? There's no answer he can give that isn't giving away his secret— _Kilgharrah says it's part of my heritage, he's still alive by the way, I'm a Dragonlord, I'm a dragon, I'm a sorcerer._

Arthur shakes his head and moves his hand to press over Merlin's mouth, but gently. "Don't. Don't. You're back. That's what matters. You're back," he murmurs, then flicks his gaze over him and huffs a laugh. "And you're naked. Here." He unwraps his cloak from his shoulders and slings it around Merlin instead.

"Thank you, Arthur," he whispers, clutching the heavy red cloth around him. He curls a hand around the prince's arm, squeezing as firmly as he can with the maille. "I…I'll tell you. I will. Just…not right now."

Arthur nods and reaches up to tug the cloak a little closer around his shoulders. "Merlin…I'm sorry. For, ah…hunting you. I'm sorry."

"It's alright. You didn't know," Merlin replies, smiling weakly, but his heart isn't quite in it. He's had nightmares about Arthur hunting him before, and the fact that the prince didn't realise it was him had been his only consolation on the cliffs. The truly terrible part will come when Arthur _does_ know it's him and still takes up that awful dragon-spear.

"Still." Arthur looks him over again, though this time he's thankfully covered up by the thick cloak. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm just…" He yawns, lifting the edge of the cloak to rub against his eyes. "Tired." His body feels strangely stiff and sore, especially in his joints and down his back, muscles aching dully with fatigue. Not to mention, he feels oddly off-balanced now without the presence of his wings or his tail. He never imagined he would think such a thing, but there it is. Matter of fact, he feels exceedingly small and vulnerable right now, and it's nothing to do with his state of undress. He's never been so vividly aware of how frail a human body is before.

"Lay down," Arthur instructs; when Merlin blinks at him, confused, the prince scowls and pushes on his shoulders. "Lay _down._ Sleep for a while, and then we'll…well, we'll think of what to do."

He wants to say something to that, truly he does, but oh, he is so very tired now that he's thought about it. Aware of Arthur's sternly concerned gaze on him, Merlin shifts a little and lays back down, pulling the cloak more securely around him so he's wrapped up in it entirely, bunching up the hood under his head for a makeshift pillow. He is dimly aware of Arthur's hand on his side as he falls back into sleep, the tail end of a thought whispering through his mind, wondering what had made him shift back.

When he wakes again, he's warm, much warmer than he had been, and it takes him a befuddled moment to realise it's because there's another body lying against his back, sharing warmth with him. Arthur. He can see the prince's maille and gambeson piled in an inelegant heap beside their little fire, and the heavy arm thrown over his waist is clad only in a white tunic sleeve.

Carefully, Merlin rolls over, twisting the cloak around him; beside him, Arthur is awake and gazing at him, eyes dark and full of such tenderness it's almost unbearable. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again when he finds he has nothing to say; he brings his hand up to touch Arthur's chest, palm to his heart, feeling the strong-steady beat of it. Arthur raises his own hand in response, callused fingertips tracing his cheekbone, his ear, his jaw, then brushing over the edge of his bottom lip. Merlin's heart pounds fast and hard, as though he's flying too hard at too high an altitude, and he can feel himself shivering faintly. Arthur slides his hand around the back of his neck, warm and heavy, and leaves it there, resting against his neck without applying pressure. Inviting, not demanding.

Merlin's so damnably nervous he doesn't quite kiss Arthur's lips when he leans forward, more like his rough stubble and the corner of his mouth. Now Arthur's hand does press lightly against his neck, guiding him into a proper kiss, gentle and warm and surprisingly soft. Once…twice…thrice before drawing back a hairsbreadth, so close their breath mingles between them.

"Arthur—"

"Shh," the prince murmurs against his lips. Both hands curled strong and sure around the sides of Merlin's neck, Arthur drops small, petal-soft kisses all over his face, lips and forehead and cheeks, jaw and nose and eyelids.

Gentle, gods' mercy, so gentle. He hadn't thought such gentleness was possible, and it brings a soft sob from his throat.

"You're never to leave me again," Arthur whispers, bringing his mouth back to Merlin's. "Never, understand?"

"I won't, I won't," Merlin sobs out.

"Good." This time, when Arthur kisses him, there's an urgency to it, a wanting so long denied tempered by mourning and sharpened by relief. "Merlin mine," he rasps out, and his voice is thick and husky, wrecked.

"I'm here. I'm here, Arthur." He shifts over so he's flat on his back, tugging Arthur's shoulders until the prince shifts over atop him, warm and heavy and _his._ Now they're pressed together from chin to ankle, and Merlin can feel him through the cloth between their bodies, rutting hard and eager against his thigh. A part of him wants to slide his hand down the front of Arthur's breeches and smallclothes, but he has a better idea. He pushes against Arthur's chest until he sits up, a look of puzzled hurt-fear in his eyes. "Your knife," Merlin says with a laugh. "You're giving me a bruise, you dollophead." He isn't being facetious with euphemisms, either. Arthur's hunting knife is still on his belt, and pressed together as they are, the hilt is digging painfully into his hipbone.

Grinning crookedly, Arthur sits back on his heels, but before he could start to remove his belt, Merlin reaches forward to do it for him, easing the leather strap through with the ease of practice. Arthur's eyes darken as it slides free with a rasp of leather over cloth, but he outright growls in his throat as Merlin starts on the laces of his breeches.

"I know you're helpless without me, but surely you can at least take your own tunic off," Merlin murmurs, surprised by his own daring as he works the laces loose. "I'll not do all the work for you here, lazy daisy."

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur hastily unties the collar of his tunic and yanks it up over his head, then brushes Merlin's hands aside, shoving his breeches and smallclothes down. With a sharp yank, he untangles the cloak and casts it open, exposing the entirety of Merlin's overheated skin to the cool air, then lowers himself to cover Merlin with his body.

The first contact of their bodies makes Merlin's back arch off the cloak with a strangled gasp, hands clutching Arthur's upper arms. He doesn't feel weak now. Now he feels as though he's lit with his dragon-fire from within, every inch of him tuned to the solid presence of Arthur against him, the slick friction between them. Propped up on his strong arms, Arthur rolls his hips down against him, and Merlin lets out another weak cry. "Hand, Merlin," the prince orders, eyes dark. "Hand."

Understanding sinks through the lustful haze in his mind. Merlin lifts a hand to his mouth, licking sloppily at his fingers before reaching down. It takes him a moment to get the angle right, but he gets his hand around both of them, adding new pressure, new slickness, and it's just _everything._ The world dissolves to nothing more than the presence of Arthur above him, the urgent thrusting of his hips, the movement of his own hand.

His toes curl on the cloak, his back arches, and Merlin closes his eyes with a groan as he falls over the edge into blissful oblivion, spilling out hot on his belly. Above him, Arthur moans and comes to a shuddering halt, adding to the mess. He stays braced above him for another moment, then slumps down, dropping his solid weight onto Merlin with a sigh.

"Oh, don't smother me, you overfed bullock," Merlin huffs even as he turns his head and licks at the sweat on Arthur's neck, tasting the sharp tang of salt; the prince only grunts, proof of how undone he is. Trying to get comfortable, he wriggles against the rumpled cloak, shifts his legs…. "Arthur, do you still have your boots on?"

"I was in a hurry."

Merlin presses his face into the bend of Arthur's neck and snickers, wrapping both arms around the broad, strong back, dragging his fingertips through the sweat there.

Chortling, Arthur shifts off him and goes to work kicking his boots off, squirming out of his breeches and smallclothes so they're at last fully naked against one another. Dragging his breeches closer, he rummages through his pockets for a moment, then comes up with a scrap of frayed cloth, using it to clean away the sticky mess between them.

Merlin blinks. "Is that my…?"

"I'll get you another," Arthur says quickly, though his ears are turning pink. Tossing aside the neckerchief, he reaches over Merlin, grasps the far edge of the cloak, and drags it over, wrapping them both in the heavy, warm fabric. "Now hush, if you're at all capable of such a miraculous feat."

Merlin laughs softly and lets himself curl into Arthur's warmth. They lay there together, catching their breath and relaxing into the languid haze that steals into them, the only sound being the snap and pop of the fire, the quiet music of the forest. With his head lowered, he can hear Arthur's heart slow and his breathing deepen, and despite the pleasant weariness in him, he doesn't want to sleep yet.

He could become the dragon again, if he wanted to. He can feel it there, curled up in his chest like some great sleeping beast, waiting for his call to wake again, and he knows that he can slip his skin at will now. He doesn't know what's changed to make it so, but…no, he does. Arthur. Arthur had kissed him, had loved him, had brought him back to himself. Was that it, then? The great secret of a skinchanger's magic? Or was it the magic that was love in and of itself that had broken the wall set between his forms? He doesn't know, and he doesn't care, either.

Careful, he tilts his head back to look at Arthur, sleeping deep and sound in the aftermath of love. Merlin hadn't properly noticed it before, but his hair's gotten so long, curling over his ears and nape, ragged fringe long enough to fall in his eyes now; a shadow of gold-brown stubble dusts his jaw. He traces a finger feather-light along the line of Arthur's jaw, then reaches up to sift his fingertips through all that soft golden hair, still slightly damp from sweat. Smiling, he turns over and wriggles backwards until his back is pressed to Arthur's chest; with a drowsy murmur, the prince drapes an arm over his waist, tugging him in close.

Tomorrow, the rest of the world will still be waiting for them. They'll have to find Leon and the rest of the knights, if they haven't already returned to Camelot, come up with some plausible lie. There will still be a ban on magic, and there will still be a king standing between them and Albion. There is still so much for them to talk about, so many things to do, but for the first time in months, _years,_ Merlin feels peace settle itself down in his bones. It'll be all right now. Everything will.


End file.
